Lend me your slow hands 

by Sadaf Chezari 

Something heavy, a whisper, a stone, cramped between the crevices
I stand in front of you, bare, in flesh and bone
Though you can’t see me, find me in the feathers of an ibis
On your track, look for the caterpillar fallen from the leaf, tethered by a line of silk
At the emergence of the cauldron, among the leather-winged bats
Come for me at nighttime, when the hour is candle-quiet
Between the hoots of an owl, and the turn of the season
If I pass you by, try again by the fresh and rosy fingered dawn
I might be pressed into a rock, turned into a wishing stone

I sit inside the symphony of cracking a soft boiled egg
The silence that dives into the well of joy to fill your cup
Sometimes I stand on the ocean’s lungs, on a low tide, letting my hair dance with the sea kelp
I’m the wind that blows away the quiet sobs across your shoulder, the strength that rises through your naval
I circle you; you circle me, circling you, weaving and patching; layering and carving till we surrender into a cocoon
Between the silk, your breath opens my chest, alchemising grief into a new season
A loud glimmer
Another me; another us 

Some life ago, on a wandering, following a whisper among the oak trees of Kielder Forest, I felt a gush rush through, breaking the grey sky, stirring the towering conifer trees. Splinters of light rained through to the forest bed, opening a hold-your-breath-quiet patch of moss canopy. A butterfly fluttered towards it to rest. Letting out my breath, I heard you whisper, loud and clear. And I thought that was strange.

I pressed you between the pages of my book, to draw a map of you.